Even The Evil Man
by SeraphHT
Summary: Just because Makarov is a psychopathic killer doesn't mean he never faces hilarious situations like everyone else. (Takes place somewhere before MW2, maybe a bit OOC, maybe a bit AU :P One-shot)


**A/N: **_This was written mainly because I was dying for a story **humorously** involving Makarov. ;_; There are hardly any out there, and I know I suck when it comes to humour, but I guess writing one up won't seem so bad. I hope two things for this short fic: that Makarov isn't so OOC-ish, and that the whole thing is...amusing, at least._

_Enjoy, reviews are appreciated._

* * *

Yuri plopped down onto the armchair, a smirk on his face, as he sank into the high-quality fabric, enjoying the feeling of soft leather against his skin and back, purring silently in satisfaction when he looked down at the small packet of chocolate bars he found in the fridge.

He was inside the study room of one of Makarov's countless safehouses. It was quite big for a study room—with two armchairs near the entrance, antique-like bookshelves at one side of the room, an empty desk with plenty of pens and paper, and another desk with a laptop on it. A door with stained glass led to a balcony.

Makarov was standing by the said door, facing it and subconsciously trailing a finger along the painted glass, speaking curtly into a phone in Russian. Whoever he was talking to, Yuri knew it was business. It always was.

His friend finally ended the call after a few minutes, released a low grunt and massaged the bridge of his nose. The moment of peace was interrupted when Yuri tore the plastic and took a chocolate bar out, creating plenty of rustling noises that annoyed Makarov.

"What are you doing here?" he snapped angrily.

Yuri shrugged. "You want something to eat?"

Makarov eyed the plastic of chocolate bars with disgust, the edge of his lips curled downwards into a disapproving frown. "No."

"Why not?" Yuri raised an eyebrow, tearing the plastic from the chocolate bar. He immediately took a bite, smiling slightly at the delightful taste. "You don't like chocolate?"

Makarov didn't answer. He looked away and stared at the innocent door.

A few moments passed, and eventually Yuri gave a small shrug, allowing his eyes to wander to the ceiling as he proceeded to devour the rest of the candy.

"You know, my friend, if you will forgive me for being impertinent," Yuri suddenly started, leaning forward with a sly smirk. Makarov looked at him, and he continued, "If you think eating chocolate makes you look soft, it doesn't. There's nothing wrong with eating what you like."

His assurance only succeeded in irritating Makarov further.

Yuri lifted his hands in response to the intense glare. "I was just saying."

After his utterance, Yuri rose to his feet, took one more chocolate bar (though the one in his hand was only halfway eaten) and murmured something about going downstairs.

Makarov watched eagerly as his friend twisted the knob, stepped outside and closed the door behind him, before releasing a sigh he didn't know he was holding in. Then, he felt an unbearable silence fall upon him—as though there was another presence in the room—as though the blatant appearance was forcing him to look—

Furtively, his unique pair of eyes rested on the pack of chocolate bars which Yuri had (maybe purposely) left on the armchair he formerly occupied. Looking around the room, as though there may be anybody watching, he slowly walked across the space, closing the distance between he and the armchairs, and stopped once he was close enough.

Makarov bended down and reached inside the plastic, taking out a chocolate bar and tearing it open. He stared at the candy—an amused glint in his eyes, a small smirk on his lips—before finally taking a bite.

He hummed quietly in approval, looking around, just to make sure nobody saw him.

* * *

Having been his friend for many years, Yuri realized Makarov was the type of men who would drink. Not actually alcohol, mind you—it could be plain water or lemonade, as long as it was a drink, close at hand and Makarov was ultimately distracted.

Yuri first noticed this when they were at a meeting with his friend's trusted accomplices a few years back. They were sitting around a table, discussing in either low, short barks or long, boring lectures, each of them having a glass of plain water right in front of them.

Makarov quickly finished his glass of water—and the way he drank was almost automatic. He listened, serious in expression, mechanically took a sip or two every few minutes, and eventually his glass became empty. Yuri watched with some amusement when Makarov's lips met with the glass, and he tilted it upwards—before scowling at the empty cup and putting it back on the table.

A few minutes later, Yuri took a sip of his own cup (his was still quite full, to this day he wondered why the air-conditioners were set at full blast) and set it a little bit to his left, a bit too far on Makarov's side.

Next thing he knew, Makarov was already sipping down Yuri's drink, bit by bit, not in the least aware since he was so caught up in listening to the discussion.

With Makarov's queer habit still fresh in memory, Yuri was feeling a bit mischievious tonight, so he invited Makarov downstairs to watch some TV. Laid out on the coffee table in front of them were many bottles of booze and some popcorn.

"What do you want to watch?" Yuri asked, lazily flipping through the channels.

Makarov didn't reply, instead stared at the TV with a slightly raised eyebrow and a small frown; as though unimpressed. Yuri hummed in inquiry and glanced at his friend from the corner of his eyes, but received no response. With a sigh he settled on a comedy show.

He smiled when Makarov's expression varied from disgusted to amused by the adult jokes in the show, and poured a glass of booze for the both of them. Truth be told, Yuri wondered to himself—what was Makarov like when drunk?

His friend subconsciously accepted the glass, and, just like Yuri expected, began to sip automatically. Apparently the comedy was quite good, even to Makarov's standards, even more so since it distracted the man pretty well.

Yuri kept an eye on his friend's glass, making sure to refill it every time it neared empty. After about five glasses, he saw that his plan was working well. Makarov chuckled (which was very unlike him), and Yuri had to contain the laughter at seeing the red tint appear on Makarov's cheeks, followed by the droopy, sleepy look in his eyes.

"How are you feeling, my friend?" he asked, snickering.

Makarov looked a bit startled, leaned forward and clumsily put the glass of booze on the table with a _thump. _Oh, he was drunk alright.

"Yuri…was that…was that…alcohol?" he slurred, his voice too low and sleepy to sound like a question. When his friend finally laughed, Makarov's eyebrows knitted together in a scowl. "Bastard…fuck…I can't see right…"

Makarov leaned back against the sofa, still looking as dizzy as ever.

"You have…you have anything to eat…besides the shit over….over there?" Makarov drawled his question slowly, pointing at the popcorn and frowning in disgust.

"Nope," Yuri answered nonchalantly. "No wonder you rarely drink, my friend. You get drunk too easily."

"Fuck you," Makarov hissed.

Some silence fell upon them, with Yuri having that stupid, accomplished grin on his face, and Makarov constantly feeling nauseous and, well, drunk. However, after a few minutes, Makarov stirred and murmured something incoherent.

"What?" Yuri asked, having not heard what he said.

"I wonder…I wonder why you can't grow…some hair," Makarov mumbled. Then he chuckled and muttered, "You really—really you look like…some sort of clown—"

Yuri ran a hand over his scalp, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

"You have tatoos…just to look mature…" he slurred, his lips breaking into a very foolish grin. "I've always fancied….myself to be…better-looking than you, my f-friend…"

Yuri stared at him in surprise. Makarov actually cared about looking good? When that piece of information sunk into his brain, he burst out in laughter.

Which just made his friend annoyed. "What are you…laughing about?"

"I will have a good time teasing you in the morning," Yuri said between his laughs, patting Makarov roughly on the shoulder.

Let's just say, when the sun rose about seven hours later, it was one of the most embarrassing mornings of Makarov's life.

* * *

"Makarov, you should play this game," Yuri said as he opened the door, a wide smile on his face, his smartphone held up high. "I think you will like it."

Makarov looked up from his desk and glared. "I have no time for your childish antics, Yuri."

"No, I am serious, you will enjoy this game," Yuri insisted, approaching his friend and holding the smartphone out. "It's a game called 'Floppy Bird'. Quite challenging and requires a lot of concentration. Give it a try."

"Before I shoot you, get out."

The other's smile was replaced by a small frown. He shrugged his shoulders and put his smartphone on Makarov's desk. "Fine, suit yourself."

He watched Yuri with a glare until the latter had left the room, and Makarov attended to the documents he was formerly paying attention to before being rudely interrupted. A few hours flew by, and his eyes began to hurt, and when the nagging headache became too much to bear, he slammed his fist down on the documents and looked up from the printed words of the papers.

His eyes involuntarily fell on Yuri's abondoned smartphone, oh-so-strategically placed directly in front of him, though a little to his right. Makarov contemplated for a few minutes—a game requiring a lot of focus _did _sound a bit tempting, along with the fact it was challenging…

Turning the phone on, he stared at the logo for a while, a bit startled by how childish the game looked, but proceeded to press the 'Play' button anyway.

"It is 'Flappy Bird', not 'Floppy Bird'," Makarov subconsciously muttered, smirking a bit. What a funny name.

It started off with him calmly tapping the screen to keep the bird up, balancing mid-air to keep the said bird out of the obstacles' way. Though mildly entertaining, Makarov went from being amused, to frowning, to being irritated, to scowling, and to eventually cursing at the phone in Russian when he died in-game.

And it wasn't long before Makarov threw the phone out the window.


End file.
